^^^, 



im Beart of the Bills 
ana Otber Poems 




By mm 6- mc6im$ey 



Drawings by ^m 



Published by the nortftern Crown Publishing Co. 
Ukiab, California 

1916. 



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Copyright 1916 

5y Grover C. McGimsey 

All Rights Reserved 



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^CU446JG. 

OCJ 10 1916 



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To 

George Sterling 

With profound admiration for his genius. 



PREFACE 

/T is ahvays a pleasant task to tcelcome something 
new to the world, something sweet and fresh 
from the hands of genius, yet my task has an 
added charm, making it fairer still; I am bringing 
you an old friend in new guise, a minstrel, (in 
printer s ink) to sing for you of the width of the 
desert places, and bring the faint haze of the farth- 
est star close for you. 

Balzac tells us that genius is spendthrift and 
profligate, but in this century when genius has so 
successfully conspired with success, we forget these 
grumblings of a past century, and rejoice in its 
well-earned triumphs. 

Therefore, with joy I herald a new minstrel at 
the portals of your palace of dreams; not a min- 
strel with a song for his fellow-dreamers, but with 
songs for the heart of all peoples in the world, 
songs to take you far afield — alone with thebreath 
of night — an atom in an infinity of understand- 
ing. 

May S. Greenwood 



CONTENTS 



The Heart of the Hills 7 

God and Man's Land 9 

The Rhythm of the Sea 12 

Your Land of a Thousand Dreams 13 

When I am Old 14 

To Dante Gabriel Rossetti 15 

Because of Grief 16 

The Heart of a Little Child..: 17 

Trails 18 

The California Hills 21 

Lines to Stevenson 22 

Lincoln 23 

The Call of the Wind 24 

The Fruitage of War 25 

Three Contemporaries 26 

Man 27 

The Way of the Waste 29 




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art Of 





AM lonesome today for the heart of the 
hills, 

Where the birds sing merrily; 

For the heart of the hills, where the 
lonesome pines 
And the old trails beckon me! 
I am lonesome too, for the willow's breath 
On the stream where the shadows lie; 
For the rocks, the trees, and a shady nook 
'Neath the summer's balmy sky; 
So why should I linger amid^ a crowd 
Of toilers burdened with care, 
When there's life, and laughter, and heaven 

enough 
In the heart of the hills up there? 



When there's life, and laughter, and time to 

breathe 
Away from the hives of men; 
And a thousand hours of changing dreams 
To drown one's trouble in? 
I am lonesome today for the heart of the hills. 
Where the fragrant lilies grow; 
For the heart of the hills where the wooing 

winds 
And the gentle zephyrs blow; 
I am lonesome too, for the lone wren's cry, 
And the song of the oriole; 
For the moss, the ferns, and the alder boughs 
O'erhanging a water hole, 
So why should I linger admi^ a crowd 
Of toilers burdened with care, 
When there's life, and laughter, and heaven 

enough 
In the heart of the hills up there? 
When there's life and laughter, and ease of 

soul. 
In the shadows beneath a pine. 
And time for the dreaming of worth-while 

dreams 
In the heart o' the hills o' mine? 
I am lonesome today for the heart of the hills. 
Where the white clouds float at dawn; 
For the heart of the hills where the open 

trails 
Lead on — and on — cmd on. 
I am lonesome too, for the fern-^rewn glades. 
Where sheltered, the wild deer roam; 
Yes, lonesome, and wanting, and needing, 

friend; 
The heart of the hills and home! 
So why should I linger admi^ a crowd 
Of toilers burdened with care, 
When there's life and laughter and, heaven 

enough 

(8) 



i 



In the heart of the hills up there? 

When there's life, and laughter, and time to 

kneel 
On the soft, unbroken sod; 
And to feel in the rusthng of the leaves 
The peace and the power of God? 




6od and man's Eand 




HERE'S a place a-way out yonder 

'Neath the soft, eternal hills 

Where a man can re^ in comfort and 

in ease; 

Where a man can watch the wild flowers 
Springing from the grass-grown glades, 
And can scent the rose and lilac on the 

breeze. 
Where a man can find his heaven 
In the ^udy of a leaf; 

And his worship in the ^illness of the day; 
For its God and man's land, "Pardner, 
There along the river's bend 
Where you see the blue sky blending into 

gray; 
God and man's land, where the ripple 
And the tossing of the grain. 
Brings back memories of childhood, 
And the warmth of tears again. 

(9) 




ZM trail of tbe ilorti) 




AVE you ever been on the trail of the 
North— 

The trail by the silent Yukon, 

Where a heavy blanket of snow is laid 
On all that you gaze upon? 
And have you felt that strange, weird call 
Which draws you into the night — 
Which calls you and leaves you a w^anderer 
Where the river's rim is white? 
If you have, then you knov/ what the North 

is like; 
And you'll want to go back someday 
To 3'^our friends, to your foes, and the frozen 

fields 
Where the caribou iTeads its way, 
For the lure of the North sits on a man 
Like the memory of v/aving pines; 
And alway, it seems, he wants the trail, 

(10) 



And the gloom where the wolf-dog whines. 

Have you ever camped in that ice-bound land 

Of the North, where the ^illness grows, 

'Till it seems that the whole wide universe 

Is a spedtre of silent snows? 

And have you felt that deep, damp breath 

Which silvers the trailing vines, 

The rivers, the mountains, the fragrant flowers. 

And even the age-old pines? 

If you have, then you know what the North 

is like; 
And you'll want to go back someday 
To skirt the lakes on the Dyea trail 
Out to Dawson or Skaguay; 
For the lure of the north sits on a man 
Till like the primordial bea^, 
He would trail again 'neath the timbered hills, 
And partake of the midnight fea^. 
Have you ever traveled that ice-glazed trail 
From Nome to the Behring sea. 
When the wind at Candle ran eighty-four 
In weather at thirty-three? 
And have you felt that awful pang 
Of bitterness in the bones. 
One feels when flaying those poor, dumb brutes 
Who are whining in monotones? 
If you have, then you know what the North 

is like; 
And you'll want to go back to play 
With death, and the blizzards which drag 

men down 
On the trail of the Great White Way; 
For the lure of the North sits on a man 
Till it seems that his very dreams 
Are m.erged with the iridescent lights. 
The stars, and the frozen streams. 
Have you ever known what it means to 

mush 
In the snow when the dogs go blind, 
From the raging ^orm which beats them back 

(11) 



From the pathway they try to find? 

And have you felt that gruesome chill 

Which over the land doth creep, 

When the sun goes wallowing out for good 

And the river to its long sleep? 

If you have, then you know what the North 

is like; 
And you'll want to go back someday 
To travel again o'er the selfsame trail, 
In exacftly the selfsame way; 
For the lure of the North sits on a man, 
And in spite of its very hell 
He will want again the long, lone trail. 
And the charms of its awful spell. 



tbc Rbytbm of tbe $ca 




UT yonder the wind is blowing. 
And the waves of the age-old sea 
Are creeping — and creeping — and 
creeping 

Up the white sands easily. 

Are creeping, breaking, receeding, 

'Till in rhythm they seem to say 

We are lovers of life and emotion, 

And the tide of eternity. 

We are restful at times, and the passion 

Of our soul ebbs low, and free; 

Like the wind on our snow-white bosoms 

Which blows so incessantly. 

And at times we are re^less, and tossing. 

Impatient, reckless, and wild; 

And we moan on the rocks, like a wanderer 

In search of an only child. 

(12) 



Vour Cand of a tbousana Dreams 




HAVE wandered today in fancy dear 
To your land of a thousand dreams; 
And heaven was mine for one brief 
hour; 
Whil^ I talked with you — so it seems. 

One brief, brief hour of treasured time, 
With nothing to mar or bless 
My soul, but your own warm hand in mine; 
And your perfed: sacredness. 

And thus it was that the daffodils 
Seemed heaven's own pearls for me; 
And your whisper fond the soul's caress 
Of life in eternity. 

Life, life at last, where hopes were new; 
And heaven that perfed: bliss 
Where soul meets soul in unison; 
And virtue's eternal kiss. 

And taking your hand, (as I mu^ some day;) 
My friend of a thousand dreams; 
I told you of all this great world's gains; 
And its sorrow too — it seems. 

And trembling, you turned, (as a dove might 

turn) 
To its mate, with a song anew; 
And 1 knew why it was that through life's 

tears, 
God had given me you — just you. 



(13) 



mbcn T Bm Oia 



to muir of the mountains 




HEN my hair is touched with silver, 
And my days of youth are done, 
And I linger as a shadow on life's ^ream. 
Let me re^ among the mountains 
Where the spring-time flowers will keep 
The silent, inspiration of my dream. 

Let me sit among the shadows 

Of the ash trees on the hill, 

Where the brown leaves ever ru^le in the 

dawn; 
Let me turn my eyes to heaven. 
And my thoughts to earth and friends. 
Ere my soul seeks yet its mission farther on. 

Let me listen to the murmur 

Of the pines, and let me hear 

The music of the ever-rippling breams; 

Let me scent the fragrant odor 

Of the hawthorne and the rose, 

And renew again life's old, familiar dreams. 

Let me climb those rugged mountains 

Where the vulture makes his home 

In the cliffs beneath the gnarled and ^orm- 

tossed trees; 
Let me drink from those cool streamlets, 
Fed by snow, and let me feel 
The coolness of the summer's balmy breeze- 
Let me find the ^rength of virtue 
In the breath of every flower. 
And a place where I can re^, when 1 am old; 
For I'll soon be growing weary 
Of this Grange world's my^ic lure. 
And be losing every treasure which I hold. 

(H) 



So when 1 have dreamed and left you 

On the sunny slope of life, 

And my hair is touched with silver, like the 

snow; 
Let me be alone with nature 
In the bosom of the hills, 
Where the changing winds of mercy ever blow. 




to Danu edDriel Ro$$ctti 




HERE can one find in all the realms of 

art- 
Save in the work of Michael Angelo, 
A canvas so appealing to the heart 
As thine, on which there re^s a mellow glow? 
Where any painting — save from Raphael, 
Compared in softness to the color scheme 
YouVe used so deftly in the "Damosel,". 
"The Bride," "Pandora," and in "Dante's 

Dream?" 
Where in the world's colledtions — time 

essayed, 
A poem greater than your "Staff and Scrip?" 
A ballad with such depth of soul portrayed 
As in your masterpiece: "The White Ship?" 
Where e'en from Shakspeare, such inspiring 

lines 
As those from that immortal song, "The 
Cloud Confines?" 

(15) 



Because of 6rief 




T MAY have been that bitterly, 
We in the pa^ have suffered grief; 
Have suffered in the soul's relief 
Of piteous, human agony. 

It may have been that love grew cold 
Where love was needed to endure; 
Where love was needed to insure 
A heaven in a heavenly fold. 

But in our loss have we not known 
A greater longing for a friend — 
A greater blessing to extend 
To those forgotten and alone? 

Have we not from our sorrow wrought 
A lyric gift of power for men, 
And by the crimping of a pen 
Revealed a thousand dreams unsought? 

Have we not closer to the rose 
Crept in our utter loneliness, 
And found it able to suppress 
The heaviest of our human woes? 

Have we not turned beneath the pines 
And found the better side of life — 
The cleansing of the soul from strife 
Because of peace where hope entwines? 

Have we not found that virtue lives 
Where self lies buried deep in tears — 
Where service crowds the v/eight of years, 
And hope brings hope to him who gives? 

Have we not learned that others weep 
Beside ourselves, who face despair; 
That others too, their burdens bear, 
While up the rugged heights they creep? 

Have we not learned that by life's tears 
We mould the art which others hold — 
Which nations value more than gold, 
When counting up the gain of years? 

(16) 



Have we not learned that faith will bring 
The fruitage of our soul's desire, 
If we but face the burning fire 
And ^ill our "anvil chorus" sing? 

Have we not touched the subtle brings 
Of soul transcending into soul, 
And known the beauty of the whole 
Of blessedness which sorrow brings? 




tbe f)im o! a Cittle gbiia 

F THERE'S one small thing in this 

great world 
That is perfect, and undefiled, 
And needful in lifting a fallen man, 
voice of a little child. 



the 



It's the prattle of joy, and the trusting heart. 

The gleam of delight in the eye, 

That can bring him back from the gates of 

despair 
Where the hopes of the childless lie. 

So of all things pure from the rose to the 

rue. 
O'er which we have wept and smiled. 
I deem that the purest thing on earth 
Is the heart of a little child. 



(17) 



(Y'^^SC^] 




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trails 




AN*T you hear the sheep a-bleating 
In the open glades out there 
Where the shades of night are creeping 
o'er the sand? 

Can't you feel the wind upon you 

As it rustles up the leaves 

All along the open trail to lonesome-land? 

Can't you hear a collie barking 

In a shallow, dry ravine, 

Where he guards the flock, and leads them 
on their w^ay? 

And a horseman's cheery whi^le 

Floating out across the range 

In that old, familiar, plaintive sort o'way? 

If you can't, then how'd you ever 

Hope to get acquainted, friend. 

With the We^, and w^e^ern places, 

Like the trail to "Rainbow's End?" 

(18) 



Can't you hear the night-birds crying 

To their mates, and can't you hear 

The lone, weird whine of some brush-prowl- 
ing bea^. 

Creeping up across the spaces 

Of the green, and fertile glades. 

As the shades of night grow deeper in the 
East? 

Can't you see the hungry cattle 

Cropping grass, and can't you hear 

Occasionally a bellow from the herd. 

When a dog slips in among them 

And from the tangled weeds 

Di^urbs the peaceful slumber of a bird? 

If you can't, then you are needing 

What we "riders" call a change, 

And I'll bet my "chaps" that ere you come to 
die. 

You'll be wanting those green hollows. 

And the glades in lonesome-land. 

Where there's gray and crimson colors on the 
sky. 

3 

Can't you hear the gentle ripple 

Of the water in the ^ream, 

When your pony ^ops to drink and paw the 

sand? 
Can't you see the moon's refledtion 
In the ^ill, unruffled pools, 
Where you pick your way across the Rio 

Grande? 
Can't you see the camp-fire gleaming 
In the distance, where the boys 
Have shuffled off the saddles for the day. 
And the long black line of cattle 
Silhouetted 'gainst the sky. 
Which at even-tide has turned to ashen gray? 

(19) 



If you can't, then God Almighty 

Must have sort o' crimped your soul 

When he left you with us in this Western 

Land; 
For most every one loves nature, 
And especially the trails. 
Which lead across the reaches to the sand. 

(4) 

Can't you hear the steers a-stirring 
Ju^ at dawn, when 'cross the sky 
Creeps the light which turns the darkness in- 
to day? 
And the rattle of the gravel 
Where a rider drops across 
A narrow wash, to rustle up a stray? 
Can't you see the smoke ascending 
From the fires, and can't you smell 
The bacon which is being served up hot? 
Can t you taste the sweet aroma 
Of the coffee on the coals 
Where it simmers in an old black granite pot? 
If you can't, then we^ern pictures 
Aren't for you at all, my friend; 
And its "fifty fifty" even, with a bet 
That you couldn't tell 
The color of an "Arizona mule " 
Nor a hair rope from a braided lariat. 




1 



(20) 



Cbe ealifornid Rills 




T SEEMS as if a ma^er mind had told 
Of all your beauty, when in prose, and 

rhyme, 
Our Markham traced the grandeur of 
your soul. 

It seems as if the dusty trails, the pines, 
The craters, and the treeless domes became 
Companions to the whole, wide world of 
men. 

It seems as if your fern-strewn glades, your 

vales; 
Your scented lilies, and your rippling breams 
More picturesque grew, and dearer to us all. 

But even Markham — ma^er that he is, 
Has never done you justice. And no pen 
Can ever tell the world ju^ what you are. 

To know your beauty, men must come and 

stand 
Beneath your rugged summits, and must feel 
The wooing winds which kiss your lips at 

dawn. 

Must come and listen to your murmuring 

pines. 
The music of your bird-life, and must drink 
From those cool springs imbedded in your 

breast. 

Must come and pluck the wild flowers from 

your dells. 
The berries from your trailing vines, and 

taste 
The choice^ fruits from orchards, nature 

grown. 

(21) 



Cities to Stevenson 



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HEN I behold the fruitage of his dream — 
Behold and marvel at his whole 

life-scheme — 
Behold and grasp his subtleness of art, 
His warmth of love, and tenderness of heart, 
I bow my head; as many have before. 
And weep; because I see his face no more. 

I know 'twere be^ that he be sleeping, since 
No health he had, or hopes within his hour. 
Yet, somehow wish that he were dreaming 

still, 
So needful is his boon of lyric power. 
But since he sleeps, sleeps peacefully at la^, 
And all his weary hours of toil are pa^. 
Let me in love — in reverence, if it be, 
Respedt his dream of immortality. 

Let me at times think of his words well kept; 
His words of love o'er which we all have 

wept; 
And oft' at eve, let memory take me far 
To Samoan hills, where rests his wooden bier. 

Yes, let me read his writings as they are 
So full of virtue, force, and heavenly fire, 
Let me with praise — if praise denote his 

worth. 
Give honor to this bard of blessed birth. 



(22) 




Dncoin 

HEY called him "Old Abe" in slavery 
days — 

"Old Abe Lincoln," the homlie^, queer- 
est, 
Most obstinate man in Washington, D. C. 

They called him thief, liar, cut-throat, 
Backbiting cur — friend of the 
Lowly Negro. 

And when in trying years, his hands were 

tied 
With diplomatic problems, and the South 
Rebelled against his wishes for free men. 
They called him demagogue and traitor. 

But if he heard them (which he did,) and if 
His heart was broken, not a word revealed 
That inner sickness, deeper than despair. 

And if the furrows deepened in his face. 
His eyes went dry of moisture, and his hands 
Hung limp beside him, not a person knew, 
Nor dared to ask the meaning of his grief. 

And so through many winters of defeat. 
Heartsick and w^eary, torn by many a storm, 
He labored for his people whom he loved. 

No re^ was his, as we know^ rest, no hope 
Save that of vidtory dawned upon his soul; 
And laboring, he made that hope his stay. 

But doomed to disappointment, doomed to 

die 
Ere vic5tory came, he made his peace with 

God; 
And left us, never knowing that we wept. 

He left us, never knowing that his grave 
(23) 



Would be the one spot in a nation's heart 
Where men would come to weep at even- 
tide. 

He left us, never knowing that the flag. 

He loved the be^, would be entwined about 

His sacred tomb, a symbol of his deeds. 

"Old Abe Lincoln," plainest, braved. 
Most honored man in America. 



oe w\ of m mu 




HE breath of the wind on the open 

ship 
Blowing steadily, strong and free, 
Has a touch of life for the sailor lad 

And a call of the sea for me. 

Has a call so strong that I seem to hear 

The waves as they come and go, 

And the boatswain's call on the morning air 

Of "heave-o! my lads heave-o! " 

And the roll of the ship, 

And the cry of the gulls. 

And the voices of happy men. 

All luring me back to the open tide, 

I answer the call of the wind. 

I answer and wish that for one more trip 

I could breathe of the salt of the sea; 

Could tug at the ropes, the wheel and the sail, 

In relief of my revery. 

(24) 



!l 



tbe Jrmm of Ufar 




UINS, ruins, ruins. 
That is the fruitage of war; 
Ruins, ruins, ruins. 
Conspicuous everywhere. 

Ruins of church and of palace, 
Ruins of lives in the bud; 
Ruins of souls in the making. 
Ruins of sweet mother-hood. 

Ruins of love and of laughter. 
Ruins of homes that were free; 
Ruins of music and pleasure. 
Ruins of sweet liberty.. 

Ruins of art gone forever. 
Ruins of flowers in the dew; 
Ruins of books in the binding. 
Ruins of faith for the few. 

Ruins of cities and nations. 
Ruins of workshop and den; 
Ruins of armies and navies. 
Ruins of factories and men. 

Ruins of souls meant for worship. 
Ruins of dreams thrown away; 
Ruins of girl-hood and boy-hood. 
Ruins of hopes in decay. 

Ruins of science and study, 
Ruins of virtue and smile; 
Ruins of kindness and kisses, 
Ruins of labor worth while. 

Ruins of ideals and worship, 
That is the fruitage of war; 
Ruins, ruins, ruins. 
Conspicuous everywhere. 

(25) 



Oree gontcmporisries 




HEN Leon Masters wrote those unique 

poems, 
About "Spoon River," and denied that 
death 

Held victories over life and natural lav^, 
He crept into the annals of the press, 
A national figure, born to wield new dreams. 

When Rupert Brooke, "A God in Flannels" 

turned 
From home to fight for England, and was 

killed; 
The memory of his name became a theme 
For lovers of verse libre, and of prose. 

When Amy Lowell came to us with those 

poems 
Entitled, "Patterns," and" A Faery Tale," 
We lovers of the muse took up our pens 
And wrote in English: 
"Verse survives again." 

And so it is, that in the blossoming 

Of years made new, by singers born — not 

made! 
There springs new life into our worth-while 

dreams. 

There springs new life about the silent lanes. 
The scented meadows, and the rivers, where 
We once stood mute, and knew no songs to 
sing. 

There springs new life among the shifting 

crow^d 
Of toilers, and aniong the girls and boys, 
Whose tears co-mingle when a poem is read. 

(26) 



Can praise enough be given then to those 
Three inspirative singers, who 
Have charmed us all, with their immortal 
songs? 




mm 

E FIRST ran wild. A savage! 

And unlearned, 

He ^ood in fear of every living thing. 

He had no clothes, no home, no remedies. 

No implements 

Wherewith to till the ground. 

He had no plans, no aims, and life at be^ 
Was merely consciousness 
Of time and place. 

He had no sails, no ships, and little knew 
That oceans, lakes and rivers 
Were his friends. 

But he had something greater than all these: 

Capacity for growth. Eventually 

The shelter of the trees became his home. 

The flint gave forth its light, a tiny flame 
Of fire revealed new wonders 
To his mind. 

The fish among the reeds became his food; 

And taking skins 

He clothed his nakedness. 

(27) 



I 



His thoughts matured, he grew. 
And in due time 
Became the ma^er over all 
The earth. 

And thus, at la^, he grew into a soul — 
A living atom, born for greater 
Deeds. 

A my^ery then, "\ve £nd him. 
Closely linked to poetry; and to all 
Those marvelous dreams which live in love 
And art. 

Thus, was he born for everla^ing life — 
Life everla^ing; and his future dreams 
Will be new songs, new art, and 
Worth-while creeds. 




Che way of tHe {Dmz 



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HEN there's never a bird in the outer 

sky, 
Nor a horseman upon the sand, 
Nor a breath of wind on the lone, still 
waste 
Of the desert, or lonesome land, 
It is gloomy, and ^rangely desolate; 
Revealing the soul's despair 
Of a leaf, of a bug, of a blade of grass. 
Charred and tinged, 'neath the sun's red 

glare; 
And yet, there are times when one seems to 

want 
The haze of a desolate dawn. 
The lurid glare o'er the open trails, 
And the sage-brush, farther on. 
For the way of the wa^e is Grange to man! 
So strange, that it seems to brood; 
And to call him back to that lone, lone land 
Of ^illness and solitude. 
He may know that the grass with its fading 

sheen 
Before him is dead, and that 
The snake-like trail, he is on, will end 
Out there in a barren flat; 
He may know, also, that a blinding ^orm 
Will threaten him on the sand, 
But still he will want the empty glades 
And the shadows in "No Man's Land." 
He will want the gloom of the mantled 

nights, 

• (29) 



And the lone stars which gleam like pearls; 

He will want the cry of a wandering bird, 

And the land where the brown smoke curls; 

For the way of the waste is strange to man! 

So strange, that it seems to brood; 

And to call him back to that lone, lone land 

Of stillness and solitude. 

He may know that its breath is the breath of 

death, 
Out there 'neath the crimsoned sky. 
But even so, he will want the range. 
The chalk and the alkali. 
He will want the slate, and the mica's glare. 
The grease wood, and brown mesquite. 
He will want the shimmering, miraged lakes. 
And the sweltering summer heat. 
He will want the ripple of eddying sand, 
Soft-blown o'er the grass and stones, 
He will want the smell of the prickly-thorn. 
And the sun-bleached cattle bones; 
For the way of the waste is strange to man! 
So strange, that it seems to brood; 
And to call him back to that lone, lone land 
Of ^illness and solitude. 
He may know that the whine of a skulking 

dog 
Farther on in the scrawny sage. 
Will cause him to feel the lonesomeness 
And the drouth of the mesa's page; 
But a coyote's cry 'cross the broad expanse 
Of sand, in a barren spot, 
Will never, it seems, turn him back again 
From the "country that God forgot," 

(30) 



For the way of the wa^e is strange to man! 
So strange, that it seems to brood; 
And to call him back to that lone, lone land 
Of stillness and solitude. 




